“Well,” he said, “it’s very good of you to ask me—I’m afraid I’m trespassing.”
“No, you aren’t,” said Danny, “come on. Fill up that mug, David, and pass the grub along. Won’t you sit on this log, sir?”
The man sat down close to the fire. He took the mug Danny handed to him and a large slice of bread and butter. This he ate in silence—he was evidently very hungry. The boys watched him. No one spoke. At last Nipper broke the silence.
“Who are you?” he said.
“A tramp,” replied the man.
Once again silence fell. Then Nipper broke it again.
“You aren’t a very ordinary kind of tramp,” he said. “I think we will call you the mysterious tramp. You will stay with us, won’t you, and tell us things? We were just wanting an adventure.”
The man smiled. His smile came slowly, as if it was rusty from long disuse. And David decided that he was so queer and silent because he had probably lived for many years upon a desert island and forgotten how to talk.
“Am I an adventure?” said the man. “And what things do you want me to tell you? Stories, I suppose. I used to tell stories once, but I’ve forgotten them all. There was a little kid I—I knew. She was always pestering me for stories. But that was long ago.”
“Oh, do try and remember them,” said the Cubs, crowding round him. The tea and bread and butter and birthday cake seemed to have cheered up the mysterious tramp no end, and he seemed to be remembering how to talk. Before long he was even laughing.